


It's a Thankless Job

by crowoflight



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Shattered Glass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-30
Updated: 2011-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-28 11:52:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowoflight/pseuds/crowoflight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But somebody's got to do it! Ratchet has a grand time modifying Wheeljack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's a Thankless Job

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for surgical non-con.
> 
> Beta'd by the wonderful Ink in Hand who is the main reason I was able to finish this fic.  
> For a gift fic exchange.

 

 **~**

Walking into the Autobot repair bay was like walking into a picture perfect example of a modern, top of the line medical facility. Brightly lit, the white surfaces of walls and cabinets polished to a high shine harshly reflects the light, every item is organized to a near painful degree, surgical tools gleam in their racks near an occupied berth with a table of replacement parts next to it and even a faint whiff of disinfectant wafts through the air. To those uninitiated, the angry voice yelling obscenities at the lead doctor was a shocking contrast to the pristine surroundings. To those who knew better, well, they line the walls of the repair bay, quietly talking amongst themselves as they watch the proceedings. Observing Ratchet work could be such a treat, so long as you weren’t the one under his care. Their medic, top of his class and an eccentric genius, honestly surprises and more often than not sickens, many time and again with the things he could and did do, to a robot’s body.

“Do you think anything vill be done vith those ugly light panels?” Elita One murmurs, accent thick and low, her frame molding to the side of Rodimus. Slim, wandering fingers trace idle patterns on his chest armor that occasionally distracts him from the show.

“Na, babe, he prob’ly likes ‘em too much.” Rodimus counters, arm secure around her waist and mostly keeping an optic on the show before them.

Leaning against the wall alongside his fellow watchers, Blurr covers his mouth as he yawns, a little groggy as he hasn’t has a chance to absorb a good amount of kinetic energy lately, though his optics are riveted to the refit. “Perhaps he’ll go for three heads this time, he has been muttering something about outdoing his work with Doubleheader for a while now.”

Ramhorn sits stoically in a corner and silently records all as per his Master’s orders as the rest of the spectators keep a healthy distance between them and the green cassette.

Goldbug hangs back of the crowd, keeping an optic on the witnesses as much as on the spectacle; never hurts to keep tabs on everyone, including his fellow Seekers, even in moments of leisure.

Audience largely ignored, Ratchet barely even registers them unless for the bizarre reason they decide to get between him and his work. Ratchet hums happily to himself as he prepares for surgery, not often is he given such explicit orders from Prime for a custom refit by basically letting Ratchet have free reign on the modifications so long as it’s complete within the orbital cycle. Usually it’s just do a little something-something to teach a lesson, and rarely is the big jobs done on an uninjured member of their own faction. Why, Ratchet could count the times he’s completely revamped someone’s appearance entirely on one hand! Thus, he was going to take this opportunity for all it was worth and really pull out the stops.

“What the hell’s wrong with you? I’m perfectly fine the way I am!” His current and newest patient hollers at him, those odd little panels on the side of his face lighting up with each word. “I do not need my own modifications sullied by your hands.”

“Well, you are better off than most,” Ratchet says approvingly, only partially agreeing with the immobile bot, happy he already had a little something to work with instead of starting completely from scratch. “But there’s always room for improvements. And when I’m done, you’ll be very unique looking. Not to mention quite efficient at your work too!”

Those light panels were far too adorable in Ratchet’s opinion and he can’t help but giggle when they light up an angry orange as his patient starts cussing at him.

“Now, now, no need for such fowl language.” Ratchet says, shaking his finger at Wheeljack in mock scolding.

The response is an obvious scowl even with the face mask before Wheeljack starts to tell him the many and varied ways he could use Ratchet’s corpse for one of his projects.

A broad grin splits Ratchet’s face. “Oh, I do like the way your processors work. Those are all so very fascinating mods, going to have to try some once I get the time. But!” He says as he pulls out an arch welder to snap on a few more restraints. “We have work to do and no time to experiment right now, so that’ll have to wait.”

Wheeljack’s reply is drowned out by a another patient nearby, the scientist wasn’t the only entertainment others sought to see today. Chassis cracked open and in the middle of extensive repairs, Ratchet had sedated him earlier to stop the excessive amount of twitching. And it seems the drugs have worn off. Ratchet hurries over to put them under again, their protests and repairs both ignored in favor of the new project. Besides having orders directly from Prime, Ratchet was enjoying himself so much more with his new patient. The other one could wait a while longer; they were in no danger of deactivation. And even if they were, spare parts were always welcomed for his collection.

“Shall be interesting to see what he comes up with this time, haven’t seen him this joyful since he worked on Huffer all those vorns ago.” Blurr idly comments.

“Yes, it’s alvays a pleasure vatching a master vork.” Elita One says, one wandering finger slipping under Rodimus’ chest armor in her distraction.

Rodimus’s engine kicks up a gear before he can control it, causing three helms to turn in his direction. The stares from Blurr, Goldbug and Ramhorn he steadily ignores, and the fleeting satisfied smile on Elita One’s face goes unnoticed by all.

Arch welder twirling in his hands, head bobbing in time with the music he has playing, and surveying Wheeljack with a critical optic, Ratchet is certain this bot will be one of his finer modification jobs. Whispers and comments from behind him about how he’ll proceed interspersed with mutters about bets placed are largely ignored as his fingers dance over the rows of finely crafted tools. So many choices, so little time and so few willing bodies to fiddle upon. Optics twinkling in delight, Ratchet decides to go for a tool he’s intimately familiar with.

Trusty buzz saw roars to life and Ratchet hefts it with a reassuring smile at Wheeljack, which only causes his patient to squirm wildly. At the shriek of metal cutting metal, Rodimus hides his wince, his own buzz saw hand rotating once in remembered anguish. Elita One mentions nothing of how his grip subtly tightens around her waist, keeping her optics focused on the operation. Ratchet gives Wheeljack a withering look, squirming will only make repairs ugly and he was given more than enough local anesthesia. It completely escapes Ratchet that not everyone would like to watch their own operation.

“Three energon rods says he don’t last a cycle.” Rodimus says.

Goldbug barely refrains from snorting. “You’re on, and I raise you by two rods that he lasts until the end.”

Quickly slicing open the dark chassis, Ratchet reveals all the gloriously modifies internals of the scientist. “Oh la la, what do we have here? Why didn’t you tell me you were hiding such nice work?”

But before he could become distracted ogling the nice innards of Wheeljack, and besides he was only being cussed at again, Ratchet grabs some heavy duty bolt cutters and snips the bottom rib struts before levering them open and clamping them in place, needing clean access to the back supports. Wheeljack shudders at the odd sensation of feeling the vibrations , the push and pull, and shifting weight from the operation but unable to feel the pain, and finally thumps his head back against the berth in surrender, lowly muttering plans for revenge.

Next, Ratchet grabs a laser scalpel; finer work needs finer tools. A few flashes of sparks as laser meets metal and Wheeljack has two new holes half the size of his shoulders on either side of his torso, a few feet below his arms. First go the internal support work, the silver metal looking nearly dead if not for the sheen of its polished surface. Back to the metal snips again, and yet more rib pieces are removed and rearranged, this time at the back and along the spinal column, making way for new support work similar in design to the shoulder assembly. A small humanoid arm among an array of other limbs from Ratchet’s work table is snatched up and given a once over. Satisfied, Ratchet grabs another arm, similar in length though slightly different in design and places it on Wheeljack’s left side. Lightly oiling the new ball sockets, Ratchet first lines up the right limb and levers it into place.

There is a loud pop and clang as the ball joint slips into place, making the group of watchers wince, though Ramhorn simply gazes on as he constantly records, the only insight to his thoughts is the small smile that fleetingly quirks his lips. Quickly, Ratchet once again oils down the joint to make sure of optimal performance, moving the limb this way and that and wiping up any leakage before it can drip deeper into the body cavity. The left arm swiftly follows suite and soon there are two skeletal limbs laying naked on either side of Wheeljack’s body. Effortlessly, Ratchet lays down new neural cabling, hydraulic lines and other fine wiring in both arms, almost idly splicing them into Wheeljack’s systems, the spectators murmuring their appreciation of the medic’s skill. Lastly, Ratchet wraps up the limb in the protective mesh used to keep all wires and small bits snug and safe, and then starts welding on the small pieces gray of plate armor.

Using a paint can opener instead of the proper micro laser, Ratchet forces open one of the ports on back of Wheeljack’s helm, plugging in a flash drive with the needed drivers and updates to properly integrate the new modifications. Elita One curls her lip in disgust at the crude methods; with such refined tools at ones disposal it makes little sense to use such barbaric techniques unless left with no other choice. Wheeljack moans as the foreign code forces its way into his processors, the new appendages at his sides twitch then lift, the new armor slowly gaining the scientist’s blue and copper coloring. Nearly as an afterthought does Ratchet add another flash drive, this one containing a multitude of Earth alt modes for Wheeljack’s frame type. Then Ratchet starts the arduous and boring task of getting Wheeljack’s systems ready for a new, alien alt mode. Finally, the stress of the operation appears to be too much for his patient and Wheeljack passes out, Ratchet fondly cleaning up any spills on the dark chassis; not many got that far with so little fuss; bonus points for him.

Blurr cocks his head slightly, running an appraising optic over Wheeljack’s still form. “Well, he did last a bit longer than most.” He admitted in a grudging tone.

“Stupendous, spectacular, fantastic.” Goldbug murmurs smugly, then turns to a scandalized Rodimus. “Seems you owe me five energon rods.”

Dark scowl on his face, Rodimus retrieves the rods from sub space and practically throws them at his underling. Goldbug scrambles to catch the rods before they hit the floor, only muttering a few unheard curses as he holds his prize close to his chassis.

With his current project groaning and out cold on the berth and Ratchet cheerily cleaning his tools, the spectators know the show is over and slowly filters out of the room, chatting amongst themselves. Unconsciously, the crowd parts for Ramhorn as the silent cassette briskly walks past, set on finding Blaster and receiving his next orders. Elita One trails a provocative finger down Rodimus’s side, engine idly rumbling as she informs him of a sniping job she needs to tell him the details of, thoroughly distracting the lead Seeker and scattering all thoughts of insane medics from his processors. Blurr blearily wanders in the direction of the cantina while Goldbug darts away for who knew what purposes.

Ratchet, ignores all this, smiling as he holds up a small tube of glowing blue liquid collected from the unconscious Wheeljack. “Comes in a little glass vial.~”

 **~**

 

By the end of the night, every small detail is added and every glitch looked over. Fists resting on his hips, Ratchet stands by proudly as he observes his latest repair job walk away.

Wheeljack staggers out the door, staring at the small secondary pair of, only slightly mismatched, arms in what looks like shock, his upper right arm gripping the wall for balance, making Ratchet roll his optics. Really now, some bots were just plain over dramatic and not thankful, not like he did a whole custom frame refit or an ember transfer or even an ember melding. Though, come to think of it, he hasn’t done a total refit in quite some time. And after eying the wounded in the waiting room and running a mental check list of the available materials, Ratchet decides that he might just be able to pull one off that day. Might have to skip a recharge cycle or two to do it, and skip over some of the many minor repairs that are needed on a daily basis, but that was a sacrifice one has to deal with in his line of work. Ah, the things he did for his patients, his work really wasn’t appreciated enough at times.

“Next!” Ratchet calls out into the waiting room, wide grin making every bot huddle in a corner as far away from him as they could physically get. Ratchet snorts in fond amusement as the mass of bot sway indecisively between him and Side Burn guarding the door shifts, rising a slew of conflicting desires among the walking wounded. They didn’t want The Hatchet working on them, yet at the same time they didn’t want to get pummeled by the guard which meant more damages to repair and more time spent at one of their medic’s tender loving care. The only reasons most of them were even here to begin with were simply because they couldn’t afford Fixit’s prices, Hoist was in a drunken stupor so his work would be even shoddier than usual, and First Aid was away from the base for an unknown amount of time.

As customary, Ratchet waits a few moments to see if any will volunteer. And again, as usual, none do and with a disappointed sigh he nods to the guard. Side Burn didn’t even have to uncross his arms before the group comes to a sudden consensus and shoves one of the weaker and heavily damaged bots toward their doctor.

Ah, it was always so nice when they cooperate with him, it gave him more energy to focus on his work instead of spending it on getting them into his repair bay.

Ratchet grabs the struggling bot’s elbow and drags him to a med berth, giving a happy little sigh at all the damage wrought to the other’s frame. It was always pleasant when the ones coming to him were of the extensively damaged type, gave him more leeway to do as he wished than with the lesser wounds. Of course that wasn’t to say he couldn’t come up with something highly original and unique with a small job or even no wound at all, much like with Rodimus’s hand, but he did have his off days and extremely busy days. A burst of anxiety shoots through the waiting room occupants as Ratchet suddenly pokes his head back out. Gleaming red optics travel over each wounded form, CPU obviously working on assigning each and every one of them with some terrifying repair. They shudder in near unison as, after a moment, Ratchet nods and smiles a pleased smile before slipping back into the OR with a bounce in his step.

As typical, however, as soon as Ratchet turns back to his next patient, he immediately forgets about all his plans for the others. The near ever present smile on his face grows bigger as he surveys the damaged bot almost as if he’s never seen him before. His processors whirl in overtime as they jump from one outlandish idea to the next.

“Don’t worry, we’ll have you fixed up in no time flat.” Ratchet says, patting a reassuring hand on his patient’s shoulder, before suddenly shoving the bot down and restraining him.

Ratchet never pauses in his work, even when the bot begins to quiver and beg, then threaten bodily harm when his words fall on deaf audios. A long time ago, Ratchet had quickly grown use to the groveling and threats that commonly occurred when he was about to perform repairs of any sort. Bots had also swiftly caught on that just because they had minor wounds didn’t mean they’d be coming out of the repair ward without some unwanted upgrades. Annoying as the trend was, besides having no affect on him, it also made him wonder what some of the others found so attractive in such behavior. Then again, to be honest, Ratchet really didn’t understand a lot of things about other bot’s behaviors.

 **~**

 

It actually took far longer than most thought it would for Prime to notice anything was off about Wheeljack’s refit. Most chalked it down to everyone, even the Decepticons, being use to Ratchet’s unique work and then not seeing the mad scientist in alt mode for a fairly long while.

Ratchet is at his own personal drafting table in his quarters, working yet again on the blueprints for his own modifications, everything has to be _just so_ before he’d work on himself, when the doors to his rooms burst open, nearly bending them to the point they couldn’t slide back into the walls properly. Unperturbed, Ratchet idly puts a little note on his HUD to modify the doors when he has the time as he turns around to greet his new visitor.

Optimus Prime rapidly crowds into Ratchet’s personal space, pushing the small medic back until he’s leaning over his own work table, in a classic attempt at quiet intimidation; he really should have known better. Wide, guileless optics look up at the fuming Autobot leader and after a moment of terse silence; “Relay switch?” Ratchet offers, holding up one of the pieces next to the blueprints; doesn’t hurt to offer his leader one of the better replacement parts, even if it is one he plans on using on himself.

Optics gaining a flat gleam, Optimus nearly palms his face in frustration. Why did he even bother keeping Ratchet around? Locking optics with the happy and eager ones of his medic, he remembered why; to terrorize the troops while getting good repairs out of it.

Red fingers tracing the shoulder seams in purple armor startles Optimus out of his little moment of side tracking. He finds Ratchet staring at him with a contemplative look, and that’s never good for the bot who caught his interests, Autobot leader or not.

“You know, I think some wings would look good on you.” Ratchet says, optics and fingers already mapping out the changes. “But not like the regular kind you see on most fliers, oh no, no, no. Sorta like a cape only cut into these great big sheared pieces almost like helicopter blades. They’ll look mighty intimidating when flared out. And totally awesome too!”

Red optics narrow in an expression that can send the bravest of Autobots or Decepticons fleeing for their embers; it has no effect on Ratchet. “No relay switch or whatever the smelt that thing is, absolutely no wings, basic repairs only and absolutely no more modifications on anyone unless cleared by me. And that is an order. You are superbly lucky that out right killing you would be so detrimental to my own plans. ” Optimus growls lowly, resisting the temptation to simply backhand Ratchet through the wall and be done with the whole affair.? “What made you think it was a good idea to let Wheeljack choose what alternate mode he scans? His arrogance led him to choosing possibly one of the worst fits for his field of work I’ve ever seen.”

Ratchet first blinks in surprise at the tirade, not really expecting _others_ to get upset about someone else’s modifications. Then he pouts at the news, sadly watching as Optimus spins around and strides out the door in barely refrained anger, most likely on his way to the smelting pool to work off some stress. The punishment was rather severe in his opinion and bots everywhere would suffer for lack of proper medical care. Then as his customary joyful smile blooms across his face at the prospect of getting to work on the scientist again, Ratchet quickly opens a comm line to Wheeljack.

Ratchet blinks when he’s met with derogatory insults and words foul enough to peel the enamel off his armor. “Well, no need to be so rude. This _is_ just a quick fix.”

Again he’s met with more blistering words. “Well, if you’re going to be like that then I _won’t_ be gentle.” Ratchet says, crossing his arms in irritation and glaring at the wall above his work table.

Silence meets his declaration before the comm call is abruptly shut off, Wheeljack most likely running somewhere far away, perhaps holing up with some of the Dinobots for protection. Which reminds Ratchet, the Dinobots have yet to come to him for their annual check ups, hopefully he’ll get to them first before one of the other medics get their hands on them or even another patient scares them off with silly horror tales about his work.

Then, shutting down his work station, he trots to his storage room and shifts through the mounds of stuff in there, searching for an item to spark his imagination. One precariously balanced box finally loses its battle against gravity and topples to the floor, sending its contents spewing in all directions. Picking up a near unrecognizable piece of machinery that just begs to be used as an upgrade today, Ratchet hums happily to himself; it’s always so nice when the others give him gifts, it opens up so many new options for extraordinary repairs compared to the standard equipment he’s typically saddled with and keeps him fully stocked too. It never even occurs to him that these gifts were to _dissuade_ him from his unwanted hack jobs.

Hum switching to a cheerful whistle, another song his patients wouldn’t be able to hear again without flashbacks, Ratchet tosses the piece of machinery between his hands as he starts a brand new day.


End file.
